


The Family Legacy

by pikachumaniac



Category: Sherlock (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-11 11:46:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2066940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pikachumaniac/pseuds/pikachumaniac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim invites himself into Q’s life. Or more precisely, he invites Q into his.</p><p>In which Jim Moriarty learns something interesting about the youngest Holmes brother, and feels compelled to share his discovery (even if no one else is interested).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. James Moriarty

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline-wise, takes place after Skyfall and during Sherlock season 2, episode 3, right after Moriarty's trial. There should be no spoilers for season 3. 
> 
> Please heed the tags; it’s not graphic, but it’s definitely there, and a significant part of the story.

“Does he still blame you?” he smiles, sickly sweet.

He waits for it. Waits for the slight dilation of the eyes, a caught breath. He wants to reach out to catch Sherlock’s wrist, to see if there is the betrayal of a pulse quickening beneath his fingertips. He successfully refrains from doing so because the rest is enough. It is more than enough. “He does, doesn’t he.”

It is still not a question.

* * *

You see. You see, over the past few months, Jim has learned many interesting things about Sherlock Holmes. Because for a man who claims to be completely detached from the world he tries to save, he has certainly left quite an impression on it.

And then there are people like Jim, who know how to leave no traces behind. And the youngest Holmes brother, who has disappeared off the face of the earth. Wiped clean, quite impressively, almost certainly his own work. The Ice Man wouldn’t do it, being the practical sort who would want to exploit the youngest’s skills for Queen and country (for _himself_ ) rather than hide them away. Sherlock wouldn’t either because not only would he not know how, he has no right.

Jim has no right either, but like that has ever stopped him.

* * *

Jim invites himself into Q’s life. Or more precisely, he invites Q into his, having his men bring the quartermaster to his domain.

“More tea?” he asks like a perfect host, his smile wide and blinding.

“No thank you,” is the polite response. On the surface, Q looks calm, but surfaces can be oh so _deceiving_ , especially when it comes to a Holmes. The young man’s eyes dart here and there, searching for an exit that Jim has made sure does not exist, and his bound hands clench and unclench. Not in an attempt to escape, but to release the nervous energy and _fear_ that is coming off him in waves. “What have you done to 007?”

Jim has a lot of experience with fear, specifically in causing it. He’s fascinated by it. He doesn’t know why people bother with it, he really doesn’t. Fear has never saved anyone, but it has certainly killed plenty. Still, based on his experience, Jim knows that the quartermaster’s fear isn’t for the agent, who was an admittedly unexpected factor, but he is polite enough to not point that out. “He’s around. Don’t worry, quartermaster, you’ll see him soon enough.”

Q doesn’t respond, not even to look relieved or concerned (depending on how he interprets that little statement). He just keeps twisting his hands as he looks everywhere except at Jim, and so Jim decides to cut straight to the chase. He is sure that Q is a busy fellow, and he doesn’t want to take up too much of his time. “Do you still blame him?”

Stony silence. He likes how the youngest Holmes brother doesn’t try to play stupid, or ask pointless questions, or lie. They both know exactly what Jim is referring to. But what is less interesting is how blatantly transparent the quartermaster is; Q just looks at him, looks _through_ him, or more precisely sees someone else entirely in his place.

But just because Q isn’t interested in playing the game doesn’t mean Jim has any plans to be so accommodating.

“I met someone, when your dear brother had me arrested.” He dunks some bread into his tea, enjoying the pained expression he gets in return. So delightfully British, this family, and he takes a large bite before continuing easily, “Locked away in the deepest, darkest hole that the British Government has to offer. It turns out that this man, this… _very_ interesting man, was not there because he had tried to destroy the country. No, he was there because he had once taken someone. And not just _any_ someone, but a _certain_ someone who just happened to be connected to the most powerful man in the country. Not that this man knew that; he just thought this certain someone was… _pretty_. And so this man took this certain someone, kept him hidden away for quite some time, and did horrible, nasty things to him.”

He sets his cup down gently, and puts a hand on Q’s thigh. It’s shaking. It’s just another way the youngest brother distinguishes himself from his siblings. Perhaps it is a genetic thing; that admirable ability to disdain emotions gets diluted with each brother. Such a shame, really, but that makes it all the easier to get under the quartermaster’s skin.

“Such nasty things,” he repeats again, just a whisper, but a whisper is more than enough. “He told me so much, you know. About the feel of skin, the taste of sweat, the cries of anguish, the way he fought and screamed and wept and-”

“Stop,” Q rasps out. “ _Stop_.”

“I’m sorry.” He leans back in his chair, the apology ashen on his tongue. “Did you know this certain someone?”

“Bastard.” No bite to the words. All bark (barely), no bite, and the despair is palpable. It’s a pathetic display, compared to the other Holmes brothers, but such pain has its entertainment value as well. “You bastard, you utter, bloody bastard-”

He puts a hand over Q’s mouth, shushing him in more ways than one. “Shh, shh, no need to be so rude. We’re just talking. Just… talking.”

He waits until Q has stopped shuddering before he removes the hand. He picks his cup back up, smiling kindly as the quartermaster tries to regain some semblance of composure. Luckily for all involved, it doesn’t take too long because he does have a schedule to keep, and not much time (or patience) to sooth hurt feelings.

“What do you want?” Q finally asks, surprisingly composed for someone on the verge of a mental breakdown.

“Do you still blame him?” Jim sighs when the youngest _again_ declines to respond, and taps his fingers against the cup as he continues, “How long did it take him to find you, once the British Government dragged him out of whatever hovel he’d lost himself in? A day? Two, at most? A month, that man kept you for a month, but if Sherlock Holmes had been searching for you the moment you disappeared, how long would it have been then? How much unnecessary suffering did you endure because your brother was too busy with his drugs and his _boredom_ to rescue you?”

“You obviously know the answer to that,” the quartermaster snaps, trying to compensate for his glaring weakness through ineffectual anger. “So again, my question to you is what do you _want_. Do you want me to say it, to tell you how much I blame him? That I still blame him? That I hid myself away from both of them because I can’t stand to see them, knowing what they allowed to happen? That a part of me-” Q’s mouth snaps shut, knowing he has said too much.

“Oh, do go _on_ ,” Jim purrs. “I believe you were just getting to the interesting part.”

Q just shakes his head, refusing to look at him. Or anything, really. “It doesn’t matter. Whatever I feel, it doesn’t matter. I’m not helping you.”

“Who said I needed your help?”

Q lets out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Why else would I be here? If you just needed an admission, you could have sent an e-mail.”

“Maybe I like giving these sorts of matters a more… personal touch,” he replies with a bright smile, which is quickly enfolded into something rather more vicious. “But on that matter, why wouldn’t you? You owe him nothing. He didn’t protect you when he could have, so why would you protect him?”

Q breathes out slowly, as if he is asking himself the same question of himself. He’s probably asked himself so many times, the poor thing, and predictably he replies, “He’s still my brother.”

The youngest Holmes is such a terrible liar, and he waves the answer away. “Ugh, sentiment. Sentiment is not a good thing, my dear. Shouldn’t you know by now that sentiment will only get you killed, or worse? I mean, where was that sentiment when that man was fucking you while your brother lazed about in a drug-induced stupor? What did your sentiment do for you then?”

“You’re appealing to sentiment to get me to agree,” Q replies, still trying oh so hard to remain calm. “Resentment is just another form of sentiment, after all.”

Not that Jim can’t appreciate that resentment, and god, there is still so much of it _to_ appreciate. He’s not sure if that is what makes him grin or the way, even now, Q attempts to bite the hand that now controls him. That is easily fixed, of course. “Ooh, I like you, _pet_.”

He laughs in delight as the entire chair is shoved back, as far and quickly as Q can go without toppling over. The youngest Holmes is breathing hard now, his breaths shallow and fast and desperate and god, the despair is delectable. He reaches forward, touching a shaking cheek, and asks sympathetically, “Still don’t like the sound of that, do you.”

“Bastard,” Q whispers again, and he sounds like he is on the verge of tears. He is so young, so very young compared to his brothers, and most important, so much less _interesting_. But easier to manipulate, between the past and his agent, and it isn’t like he’s the end game anyway. “Bastard, bastard, bastard, _bastard_.”

“That is extremely impolite,” he chides, tapping the quartermaster’s nose. “But oh dear, look at the state of you. I can see that you need a moment to collect yourself. I had a feeling that this might happen, so I took the liberty of having a room made up for you. Your double-o agent is waiting for you there, although I would advise you not to touch. He might just _explode_ in joy from seeing you.”

He stands, smiling cheerily at the quartermaster, who is still shaking and cursing him quietly and overall being rather pathetic. “Maybe once you’ve reassessed your position, you’ll be ready to discuss what you can do for me.”


	2. Q

As promised, James is indeed waiting for him. Also as promised, he’s wired to explode.

“That’s vexing,” he says quietly as he is escorted in. He hopes James doesn’t judge him too much when he doesn’t try to escape before the door closes, but it’s taking everything in him just to stand up straight. If it wasn’t for the fact that James is here, creating some sort of anchor for his sanity (although then again, for all the promises he’d made to his partner, sanity at a time like this was _not_ one of them), he knows he would be flinging himself at the door, clawing at the wood until his fingers bled in a supremely futile attempt to get _out_.

“It’s a tad uncomfortable,” James agrees dryly, and Q cannot decide if the concern in his eyes is calming or adding to his distress. Perhaps both, although that makes no sense, but Q has long ago realized that little makes sense in this world. And that was before he joined MI6. “How was your meeting with our esteemed host?”

“He knows too much,” Q replies quietly. He doesn’t need to say more; James knows exactly what he means. James knows exactly what is going through his head at this very moment because ever since _then_ , the agent is the only person he’s ever been able to speak to about his past. Or at least, a very specific aspect of his past, the part that is the reason for the claustrophobia that is fast kicking in even now. He’s never done well with enclosed spaces, not since that time. He pays hundreds of pounds more than he should to have a large, open, and mostly empty flat with more space than he knows what to do with but that he must have for the sake of his sanity. He remembers how hard it was to go to the underground bunker (just one more reason to loathe Silva, he supposes); although the quarters there were spacious enough, the lack of windows reminded him of a dark basement where he had spent what felt like a lifetime dying a little more each and every day, wishing terribly that it would go a little bit faster. Just a little because he hadn’t been in any room to make demands, and that seemed like the least the world owed him.

Because death, at least, had been attainable. For a time, he’d dreamed of rescue, but that was when he was still naïve and foolish enough to put his trust and faith in Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes. He should have known better than to think they would ever put him first. An entire childhood had been spent looking up to those two, but that had been one of the first things to go when they had failed to show up. He’d ended up losing a lot of pieces of himself during that month, and day after day, he’d learned to settle gladly for death.

The man hadn’t particularly liked that, but he hadn’t cared. The man had taken _so much_ from him, but no one could take away that, could take away the words in his head and that absolute lack of will to live anymore, the absolute lack of will to do anything except please, _let it end_ , let it end in the only way he’d known how.

But of course, that was precisely when Sherlock had found him, or at least what little remained. Sherlock, who had always been so _brilliant_ in his eyes, was able to solve every single mystery but too busy (too _lost_ ) to put that brilliance to use when it was his own brother begging for someone to save him (and when that failed, for someone to just put him out of his misery). Moriarty is right about a lot of things, but he hadn’t been right to ask Q how long it had taken Sherlock to find him once the man had realized he had gone missing. He has never known the answer to that because he had never wanted to know.

Mycroft likely knew, which was precisely the problem. Q is still not convinced that the man who had the entire British government at his beck and call could not find him without Sherlock’s assistance. But just because one had the British government at his fingertips did not mean it could be utilized for something as insignificant as a missing person. That amount of time, energy, and effort could not be spared, especially when one had the welfare of Queen and country to fret about. Family mattered to Mycroft Holmes, but the empire had always mattered more, and when choosing between one or the other, everyone knew which he would choose.

Being in the business he is in now, making exactly those same sort of choices, Q supposes he should not blame Mycroft for that. But at a certain point, “should” becomes an abstract term that is easily discarded. Because in the end, regardless of whether Mycroft had made the right call, it hadn’t been Mycroft who had suffered the consequences of that decision. It wasn’t Mycroft in that tiny basement, begging and crying and breaking down until death was viewed as a mercy rather than something to be feared. And it wasn’t Queen and country either, who had been locked away from the world, subject to one man’s twisted fantasies. It had been him, who had ended up losing so _much_ of himself that by the time the two had finally deigned to arrive, there hadn’t been much of anything left to bring back. They had regretted (as much as they could) their decisions, of course, but their regret hadn’t changed what he had been through. It had made his subsequent actions easier for them to accept though, since they both knew they had no right to complain otherwise.

And yet still, even now, he finds himself being defined by his genetic relationship to those two men, and even though he had received a rather substantial lesson that life is supremely unfair, he can’t help but feel rather bitter about it. He’s already lost so much because of them, and how is that more could be asked of him now? Hadn’t he already been through enough, when he still cannot bear an unexpected touch without having to careen towards the toilets to vomit, when he wakes up in the middle of the night thinking he is _there_ , when at any moment he finds himself unable to _breathe_ because he suddenly cannot bear it, and-

“What are you going to do then?” James asks, shaking him out of his rising panic. He clings to the question with no little desperation, fighting back the fear and concentrating instead on what he needs to do now. Because Moriarty had made him an offer, one that he would not have hesitated to take if it would mean not having to spend one more minute in this locked room with his partner wired to explode. No one would blame him for accepting that offer, not even Sherlock and Mycroft, who had no right to expect anything from him, especially not when it means compromising his sanity or the promise he made James.

But he hasn’t accepted the offer because he knows there is no point to it. Regardless of what Moriarty insinuated, it is obvious that the consulting criminal is not going to let him or James go, not when he is to be used as a pawn against a man he wants nothing to do with in the first place. The only reason why Moriarty even asked is to use his acceptance against Sherlock, one more friendly reminder of past mistakes. For some, that might be reason enough to say yes, but Q has never been interested in… revenge against Sherlock. He just wanted to be left alone, so if taking Moriarty upon his offer does not accomplish that, then there is no point to anything he does.

“Nothing,” he says finally, and just saying the words out loud makes him want to panic again, at the thought of once again being at the mercy of someone else’s whims. “There’s nothing I can do.”

“It’s fine,” James replies. “We have time. We’ll figure something out.”

Three blatant lies, and yet somehow the words are able to calm him regardless. It’s probably a testament to how broken he is, but then so is James, which is probably why they fit together so well. They both have so many parts of them missing that they’re able to fill in those gaps so easily, and even though he knows he shouldn’t, he can’t help but be grateful that James is here. A better person would have fought to keep his partner from being endangered in the first place, but Q has never claimed to be a good person.

He is also very, very tired, exhausted both physically and mentally but mostly emotionally, and so he slowly makes his way over to James. He knows he shouldn’t do this either, given the risks, but he’s long come to terms with his mortality and so he slips his hand into James’s. His partner doesn’t hesitate to respond in like holding on as best he can to Q’s shaking fingers given that he is still tied to what is likely very volatile explosives.

That is how they pass the night, waiting not for rescue (neither has been that naïve for a very, very long time), but for whatever waits for them the next morning. Which really, is not so different from how they have passed their entire lives.


	3. Sherlock Holmes

“Our brother is missing.”

This is not the first time Sherlock Holmes has heard that statement. He reacts far differently from the last time ( _“And how is that my problem?”_ ) though, immediately sitting up and asking, “When?”

“Not long,” Mycroft replies tersely. “But I would prefer to resolve this quickly. I am sure you understand why.”

Sherlock does not bother to dignify that with a response, his mind already racing ahead, to the point that he barely hears when Mycroft continues, “MI6 believes it is work-related, as one of their agents has also gone missing, but I suspect it might be something else. You have not heard anything, have you?”

“No.” He doesn’t know why Mycroft is wasting time with these questions, but he knows better than to ask. He has no right to say anything, not after the last time, when his only response had been to try and push his older brother away. Mycroft hadn’t been willing to be pushed though, standing his ground in a way that Sherlock had only ever seen when Mother England was at risk.

_“I need you to find him, Sherlock.”_ There had been no mistaking the desperation in the words, but he had not been able to see that through the drugs and his own arrogance. He’d long known that there was only one thing Mycroft cared about, and it was certainly _not_ family.

_“Lost him, have you?”_ he had sneered. _“Are you really that certain that he didn’t just tire of your meddling? Goodness knows I have.”_

_“Unlike you, Sherlock, our brother is rather more the responsible sort. He wouldn’t disappear simply because it suited him.”_

_“More the fool him then.”_

One didn’t need to know his brother to sense Mycroft’s rising impatience in the snapped, _“Be serious, Sherlock.”_

_“I am being serious. I have no interest getting caught up in your disputes with our brother, Mycroft. We have enough of those between us already.”_ He’d made a shooing motion then, even as he turned on the mattress, ready to block out the world and all its mundane problems again.

But Mycroft had proven unwilling to give up, instead literally getting his hands dirty to grab Sherlock and flip him back to face him, and even now he remembers the _fury_ on his brother’s face. _“He’s been missing for a_ month _, Sherlock, and I need you to_ find _him.”_

_“Why me?”_ he’d complained. _“Why can’t you do it?”_

_“You don’t think I’ve tried? I’ve scoured all the terrorist organizations, assessed all the recent threats. There’s been no unusual activity, no recent enemies, no-”_

_“That’s because you’re looking in all the_ wrong _places. This isn’t a matter of national security, not everything is, and this isn’t even_ personal _. This is-”_

That was the moment he had realized his mistake. Up to that point, he had assumed – as was the usual case – that Mycroft had needed him to find their brother because Mycroft wanted to use their brother’s skills for the good of Queen and country. But he had finally come to realize that Mycroft needed him because he could not find their brother on his _own_.

Mycroft was more intelligent than him. He always had been, much to Sherlock’s own crushing disappointment, and his inability to cope with that fact had sent him spiraling down into a self-created oblivion because that was better than coming up short every single time. But where Mycroft always, _always_ failed was at seeing the smaller picture; everything had to be related to something _bigger_ , a threat that only Mycroft could take care of. Except that wasn’t always the case, and that was how things like this slipped into the cracks, too small and insignificant in the grand scheme of things for Mycroft to comprehend.

All of that boiled down to one thing.

_“This is_ what _, Sherlock?”_ Mycroft had asked, again with the impatience but with a hint of concern that had become increasingly rare, the more important his older brother had become.

_“… random.”_ His mind had started to clear then, pushing past the drugs and the apathy because there was something to solve now, something to do, and more than that it was their _brother_. Except his mind could not work as well as he had needed it to, and even now he remembers the sudden crush of fear as he finally realized how desperately he needed to figure this out because it wasn’t just another mystery but their _brother_ , and what was happening to him at that very moment? _“This wasn’t planned, which means they didn’t need him for anything. But why him then, what would be the purpose? What would be the point except for-”_

And there it was again, that stab of fear, and he had pushed himself to his feet while ordering sharply, _“Show me everything you have.”_ But the words were slurred at best and everything was spinning because he hadn’t actually been in any state to deal with this, and he would have fallen if not for Mycroft steadying him and why was it that the insufferable man had to interfere with _everything_? He should have left Sherlock in that hovel, but no, he’d _needed_ him, and more than that their brother had needed him too.

_“Not when you are like this,”_ Mycroft had said quietly. Reluctantly. _“You are no good to anyone like this.”_

_“We have to find him, Mycroft.”_

_“I am glad we finally have something we can agree on.”_

They couldn’t wait for him to be off the drugs completely, of course. They didn’t have the time, and Sherlock wouldn’t have let anything stop him from working on this case even though deep down, they both knew it was too late anyway.

It had not taken long for Sherlock to determine that their brother’s kidnapping was an _impulse_ , nothing elaborately planned. He’d been able to create a profile of the likely suspect, and had gone to his contacts within the homeless community – not as many as he used to have, but enough people still owed him favors – and in less than forty-eight hours, he’d had a name and address.

There was a time he would have exulted at his success, solving a problem that Mycroft had failed to after an entire month. The problem was that it had been a _month_. A month since their brother had been taken, a month that their brother had been in the hands of a monster. And by the time they had finally found him, it was Sherlock who had felt like the monster.

He still remembers it all too well, the moment when their brother had been pulled out of the basement of that rundown home, filthy and sobbing and absolutely shattered. He hadn’t recognized them, too terrified by being surrounded by so many people, and Sherlock can still hear his screams from when anyone had touched him. It had taken them all a while to realize that there were actual words in those screams, and to this day, he still has nightmares about the way their brother had screamed ( _no more, no more, just kill me_ please) as he tried to push them away, terrified of what they would do to him next.

(Sherlock had tried deleting the scene once before. He had failed.)

Unable to deal with it, he had tried to busy himself by examining the kidnapper, a man by the name of Jeffrey Scott, who was being restrained by Mycroft’s men. According to his contacts, Scott had done a previous stint for attempted kidnapping, and had only been out for a few weeks before their brother had gone missing. As Sherlock had determined, this kidnapping had not been planned; it was just an impulse, and Scott had happened to be lucky (and their brother extremely unlucky) that in a city filled with cameras, he’d managed to find the one spot that wasn’t being watched.

Sherlock had forced himself to stand there and listen as the man babbled about what he had done to their brother, in crude but meticulous detail. Scott was clearly insane, but that hadn’t stopped Sherlock from wanting to shoot him between the eyes as he’s described their brother’s body in intimate detail, right down to the scar he had on his thigh when they had been a little too creative playing at pirates. Sherlock had been there for his brother then, stemming the blood and doing his best to soothe away the pain, but he hadn’t been able to do anything this time around.

It was little wonder, then, that their brother had been quite serious about wanting to be dead. They’d had to restrain him at the hospital, to prevent him from harming himself further, and when he finally stopped it was only because he had completely given up. The only thing that had separated him from a corpse was the occasional shallow breath and the beeping of the monitors that informed them that despite their brother’s best attempts (and their respective failures), he was still there.

Sherlock had stayed there too, although he couldn’t bring himself to enter the hospital room. The same had gone for Mycroft, and so they had waited outside, silent in their vigil, which was how mummy and daddy had found them.

_“You shouldn’t see him,”_ Mycroft had told mummy and daddy. _“You don’t want to see him like this.”_

His efforts at protecting them backfired spectacularly. _“It’s not about what we want,”_ mummy had replied, more angry than Sherlock had ever heard her, and pushed past them.

He couldn’t remember how long he and Mycroft had stood outside that room. Mycroft eventually left because of course England had to come first now that their brother was safe (if not entirely whole). Sherlock had continued waiting though, an agony considering how he was still coming off the drugs, but nothing compared to what their brother had been through. It was weeks before he could finally bring himself to face their brother, although he had waited until one of the few moments when their brother’s breathing had become calmer, signifying a sleep that for once was not caused by medication nor disturbed by bad dreams.

_“I’m sorry,”_ was the only thing he had said. And for the first time in a very long time, he had actually meant it.

Their brother had disappeared the very next day. He’d then proceeded to thoroughly erase all records of his existence, almost certainly with the help of mummy and daddy, both of whom refused to speak of him to either Mycroft or Sherlock. They’d had no room to protest, not after they had failed so miserably.

Eventually Mycroft had learned that their brother was at MI6, probably thanks to daddy’s connections to the current M. Sherlock had hated that. Their brother had always been everything that Mycroft and Sherlock could not be – bright but empathetic, cunning but not callous, and so brilliantly ambitious. But rather than want to mold the world in his image as Mycroft did or to run from its tedium like Sherlock had, their brother had wanted to create things that would make the world different, _better_ , and once he might have managed it.

But that desire was gone, taken from him because they had not been able to protect him, and now he sought only the protection that MI6 could offer a person who would undoubtedly become the quartermaster sooner rather than later. Perhaps it was better, in a way, because Sherlock knows from personal experience that the brightest always have the most brilliant falls, due to never being able to meet their own expectations. Except it had never really felt that way. What it felt like was their brother settling for being something less because he’d been damaged so irreparably that he didn’t know how to be anything more ever again.

And there was no one to blame for that but Mycroft and Sherlock. Neither had asked mummy and daddy if they blamed them, and no one needed to ask the newly dubbed Q what he thought. Sherlock had never spoken to him again, and Mycroft only through clipped electronic communications in an official capacity. It was surprisingly easy to accept that their brother was gone, and in his place Q, who wanted nothing to do with them unless it was required by work (and not even then).

Things had never been the same after that. Sherlock quickly got sober, but the family he had abandoned no longer existed to come back to because there was a gaping, empty hole in it. He’d taken it for granted, how much their brother had _adored_ them even when they were unable to reciprocate in the same way, and now it was gone. It wasn’t easy to accept, but they had to respect that. They’d had no choice but to respect that.

Until now.

There is only one reason why Mycroft will seek him out now, after what they had done. There is only one reason why Mycroft would be desperate enough to seek him out.

“I’ll take care of it,” he replies, and hangs up before his brother can respond. He knows Mycroft wouldn’t have tried to dissuade him anyway.

He leaves the flat, ignoring the questioning look John throws at him. He probably should try to explain, but there isn’t time. Because of him, they had lost their brother for good. He will not let Q be lost as well.

And so he dials the number, the one slipped under a petri dish what seems like a lifetime ago. He does not have to wait long for his call to be taken.

“Jim,” Sherlock greets pleasantly, not bothering to wait for a hello. “I have a proposition that you might just be interested in.”


	4. James Bond

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for past suicide attempts.

When the men enter the room, James is not surprised to feel Q edge behind him. He would be even less surprised if Q was to trigger the explosives he is tied to, but Q had made him a promise long ago, and he knows that his partner does not like to break promises. James appreciates how difficult that must be, especially when Moriarty comes striding into the room, accompanied by a shit-eating grin and what honestly appears to be a basket full of _muffins_.

“I thought you might be hungry,” Moriarty explains, holding the basket out towards them. Neither of them move, although James really couldn’t have on account of being tied to the chair, but then he doesn’t relish the idea of being poisoned either. “No? Oh well, more for me, I suppose.”

“I believe you had wanted to discuss what I can do for you,” Q says quietly, as uninterested in Moriarty’s games as James is.

Moriarty hums slightly, like he is having trouble remembering their prior conversation. “Hmm… oh yes, about that. Actually, as it turns out, I don’t really need anything from you. I just need you to stick around a bit longer, but you’re used to that sort of thing, aren’t you, _pet_?”

James growls as Q jerks back, but Moriarty just laughs at their antics. “Calm down, you don’t interest me _that_ way, sorry.” The laugh cuts off sharply then, as Moriarty slowly looks over James, the smile vicious. “Now you, on the other hand….”

“Not interested,” he replies coldly.

“Are you sure?” Moriarty asks, his voice a mocking whine. “We have _so_ much more in common, Mr. Bond. I’ve always thought that we killers ought to stick together, but then your kind were always so high and mighty. Hiding your killing behind Queen and country doesn’t change the fact that you’re nothing but a glorified hit man, you realize.”

That isn’t the first time he’s been told that, and he’s not sure why people seem to think it should surprise him. He came to peace with his actions a long time ago (it was either that or drink himself into an early grave), and besides, they all know this current situation has nothing to do with patriotic duty. “Tell me something I don’t already know.”

Moriarty hums again, all too happy to take up that challenge. “Hmm, okay. Here’s one for you: has your precious quartermaster ever told you his real name?”

James gives Moriarty a long look. He wonders if the criminal is actually trying to drive a wedge between them because if he is, his efforts so far are paltry at best. It’s not as if he hadn’t realized from their very first meeting that there was something… off about the new quartermaster. He wasn’t the only one who had noticed it, of course; in an organization full of spies, it was more or less inevitable.

 _“Have you noticed something off about the new quartermaster?”_ 004 had asked him a few weeks after the Silva incident.

 _“Define off,”_ was his short response because another inevitability about an organization full of spies was that everyone there was a little off in the head.

The around-the-clock surveillance on the quartermaster was another sign that there was something not quite normal about the younger man. The quartermaster had always warranted a certain level of protection, as did all of the other executive positions at MI6, but the security surrounding Q was a bit on the extreme side. And given how that security had existed _before_ Q’s promotion to quartermaster, it was no wonder that the most popular theory was that Q was a criminal that MI6 had picked up, and that the surveillance was there to make sure he wouldn’t do a runner.

As theories went, it wasn’t a bad one, but James preferred the straightforward approach.

 _“The quartermaster’s security measures seem rather intrusive, don’t you think?”_ he had casually asked Eve while waiting for an appointment with Mallory over some minor riot or whatnot he had left behind during a mission.

Eve hadn’t even glanced up from her computer screen. _“They were requested, 007.”_

 _“By who? M?”_ His M, of course. She always was the consummate busybody.

 _“By Q,”_ Eve had replied, in a tone that strongly suggested he should drop it. He didn’t get the opportunity to inquire further (if he was going to at all) because it was at that precise moment that M had called him into the office for his weekly harangue.

There hadn’t really been a reason to ask, since it didn’t matter what Q’s past was or wasn’t. As long as Q continued to give him the tools he needed to complete his missions, that was as much about the quartermaster as James needed to know. Everyone had their secrets at MI6, and more than that, everyone knew better than to ask questions since there was a reason why the psychiatrists were the most loathed individuals in the building.

Except at a certain point, it felt like people were so busy trying to be respectful of Q’s secrets that people were looking past how _damaged_ he was, and leaving him to fend for himself. Yes, Q held himself together admirably, but James knew a thing or two about broken things, and so he wasn’t entirely surprised the day he found Q-branch in utter chaos and Q in the toilets, retching. He still doesn’t know why he had gone in there, or why Q had let him. But that was also the day he learned why Q never rolled up his sleeves, not even that day the temperature control broke and sent the heat skyrocketing to sauna-like temperatures, because under those hideous cardigans were long scars snaking across Q’s wrists.

He hadn’t been able to keep himself from staring, but Q hadn’t cared. He’d barely bothered to acknowledge James’s presence, too busy dry heaving into the toilet to care about his audience. But after a few long minutes punctuated by hacking coughs as the younger man tried to regain his breath, if not his composure, Q had finally looked at him from the corner of his eyes and asked dryly, _“Why the stunned silence, 007? Surely you’ve seen scars before.”_

He had replied in the only way he knew how _,_ which was precisely the way everyone else would answer. _“It’s not my place to ask.”_

 _“You’re damn right it’s not.”_ But there wasn’t any real heat in those words, only a resignation as Q slowly hauled himself into a sitting position before covering up his arms. He didn’t meet James’s eyes as he said, _“I don’t need your pity, Bond. I don’t need your understanding. I don’t need your approval, and I most certainly don’t need to explain myself.”_

_“I’m not asking you to.”_

Another long minute passed before Q turned to face him, expression carefully blank. _“So then why are you still here?”_

_“To see if you needed help.”_

Q’s expression had darkened, and he’d turned away as he said bitterly, _“I just told you, I don’t need your pi-”_

 _“It’s not pity,”_ he had interrupted. _“I just wanted to see if you needed anything. It’s fine if you do, you know.”_

Q had looked at him again, as if trying to figure out what his agenda was. James had simply stared back, waiting patiently for the quartermaster to work through the situation and determine what was best for himself. Finally, Q had turned away. _“I would very much like to be left alone. Please.”_

And that was all that had needed to be said. Of course, James could hear the desperation underlying the request (a request, not an order, even though Q would be well within his rights to make an order), and so he had simply nodded and withdrawn.

They didn’t talk about it in the weeks that followed, although that didn’t stop James from thinking about it. He didn’t know why, since if it was anyone else, he would have let the matter drop (as long as he did not think there was any potential threat to England, of course). But with Q, he couldn’t help but remember those long scars and the dead, empty look in Q’s eyes as the quartermaster had asked him to walk away.

If he had wanted to, he could have simply pried. It would have just been a matter of going through Q’s file (the unofficial, unredacted one) on Mallory’s computer, and satisfied his curiosity. Except this wasn’t about idle curiosity but something more, and apparently Q had agreed since he one day found himself being asked to meet the quartermaster on the roof.

Without preamble, Q had explained everything that day. Explained what had happened, in an emotionless voice while they stood there, staring at the rooftops and the long drop below them.

When he had finished, James could only respond in one way. _“Why are you telling me these things?”_

Q shrugged, _“Because you didn’t ask. That’s all people did afterwards. They wanted me to talk about it. Not about what happened, nothing as voyeuristic as that, but how I felt. How I was doing. They wanted to understand what I was going through. But not you. You didn’t need to ask.”_ Q had met his eyes then, and said, _“You already understood.”_

He did. Not what Q had gone through specifically; he knew (knows) he will never understand that because it is such a private, personal thing, but he understood that dark, desperate place that most people never came close to. Talking about those things didn’t help people understand; they just helped them feel sorry, and Q wasn’t looking for sympathy. He wanted someone who could relate, someone who didn’t have to be told what it was like to feel like life was so unbearable at times.

The thing he hadn’t understood was why _him_. At MI6, nobody asked unless they worked for the psych department (which usually meant nobody answered). He hadn’t done anything any different from anyone else, at least not on purpose. So he hadn’t really known what to say, and could only watch as Q flicked at the broken pieces of the wall he was leaned against. _“And… because you judge me.”_

It had taken a moment for James to realize that Q had hit upon what he himself had not been able to put into clear words, the reason why it was different with Q. So he’d had no choice but to admit, _“Yes.”_

Q had sighed, staring down that long drop, and James could only wonder how many times he’d looked down that drop with an intent to just _fall_. _“I suppose I can’t blame you. You spend so much of your time cheating death, trying to survive everything the world has to throw at you. It makes it difficult for you to understand why someone would prefer death when you do everything you can to live.”_ Q didn’t wait for an answer, continuing simply. _“It was all I could think about, back then. I wanted it to stop. I would have done anything to make it stop. I’ve made… adjustments since, but even now, it’s been thirteen years and no matter what I do, sometimes it’s all I can think about still.”_

_“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”_

_“I know. That’s why I’m telling you.”_

He hadn’t really known how to respond to that, but Q hadn’t waited for an answer anyway, quickly striding away. Since it was in the direction of the stairwell rather than off the roof, James couldn’t really complain.

They had never talked about it again, except once. By then, their relationship had evolved into something more than just a mutual understanding and a need for someone else to fill in the empty spaces (because Q wasn’t the only one with cracks, or the only one who wanted someone who _understood_ ). It didn’t always work because things could never be easy with people like them, but that was fine. They knew what they had, and that was enough.

Like the last time, there was no apparent cause, no specific reason for Q bringing it up. Just one day, as Q handed him his equipment, the quartermaster had asked quietly, _“Would it be unfair of me to ask that you do your best to bring yourself back?”_

James had paused at that. It had again taken a moment for him to realize that Q never had actually asked him to come back. It had always been about doing his best to bring back the equipment in one piece (he rarely does, but it’s not like he doesn’t _try_ ), and never about James himself. Before he could think of a response, Q had continued, saying, _“Because I can’t promise you the same, you realize. If there was a chance of it happening again… I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. Not for me.”_

_“I would never ask you to.”_

Q had swallowed, his hands twisting nervously. _“Yes, I know. But still. I want you to come back. I realize I cannot make any promises as to myself, but for you, I’ll always do my best to keep you alive so that you can come back. Whatever that requires of me.”_

He’d understood what Q was really offering, even if it was not said in so many words. More than that, he knows how hard it is for Q to offer, and what it means if he accepts. He hadn’t even hesitated. He’d simply taken the equipment with one hand and Q’s wrist with another, and pressed his lips lightly to pale skin and the even paler scars as he murmured, _“I understand, Q. I understand.”_

And he does. Maybe he doesn’t know Q’s name, but he doesn’t have to. The person Q was _before_ is not the person he is now. Q is the one who had survived, even if he had not always wanted to, although maybe that was the point. Q had left behind his past and the person he once was, not in the way he once tried but by finding another purpose. James doesn’t really think he is worth living for, but he’ll be damned if he lets someone like Moriarty take that away from Q, to force him to be that person he had left behind so long ago. That isn’t who Q is, and that isn’t who Q is about. So he looks the man in the eyes and answers coldly, “I already know everything I need to know.”

The criminal looks disappointed but only for a split second, as nothing seems to get him down for long. He sighs dramatically, as if dismayed by James’s lack of interest in the secrets he possesses, and asks, “You really don’t want to know. I can’t really believe that; I know what you super spies are like. How about this, I’ll just give you a hint instead. It means ‘beloved.’” Moriarty’s eyes slide towards Q, who has not moved from his spot behind James. “I always thought it made sense, seeing how you were _everything_ to him. You still are, I reckon.”

They both know that Moriarty isn’t talking about James anymore, and so Q just replies, “It wouldn’t matter even if you were right.”

They also know that Moriarty doesn’t care much for his opinions, which is demonstrated when Moriarty shakes his head. “You really don’t know anything, quartermaster. In all of your bitterness, and even after a decade of denying him your affection, you still don’t accept how willing he is to give up everything to come to your side.”

James can feel Q start terribly as his partner demands with undisguised alarm, “What are you saying?”

Moriarty just smiles as an unknown, and yet completely familiar figure walks into the room. And James knows in that instance that no matter how much Q tries to move on from who he once was, the past is always difficult to leave behind, especially when there is some bastard determined to bring it all crashing together. “Honestly, I don’t even know why you have to ask. Say hello to our other guests, Sherlock.”


	5. John Watson

John doesn’t know why Sherlock bothers anymore with the intrigue and mysterious disappearances. John will always follow him because Sherlock is an idiot and will get himself into trouble without someone keeping an eye on him, and not bothering to tell John what is going on just makes it more difficult for him to keep the bastard alive.

(What this says about John, he doesn’t want to know.)

So, at a certain point, he couldn’t be bothered either. He’d registered Sherlock’s mobile on Mephone (password: _myflatmateisa_ prat), which didn’t do anything to stop the self-proclaimed consulting detective from running off but at least gave John the chance to check if Sherlock was just at Lestrade’s office badgering the police for cases because he was bored, or getting tortured by the Russian mafia.

Unsurprisingly, it is something closer to the latter today, which is how John finds himself at some abandoned warehouses. That’s never a good sign for their survival prospects.

Because he’s not Sherlock Holmes (because he’s not an _idiot_ , current evidence to the contrary notwithstanding), he doesn’t follow Sherlock into the building. Instead, he scopes the other buildings, and picks the one with the best view in.

It’s a solid plan, minus the fact that that his moves have already been anticipated.

“Doctor Watson, we’ve been expecting you.” The voice is treacle sweet, but the sound of a safety being clicked off it not, and John sighs because he’s pretty sure that he’s about to get kidnapped again. “You won’t be able to hear anything from here, so let’s get you up close and personal with the others, shall we?”

* * *

When John is ushered into the room, the first thing he notices is the blond, steely-looking man strapped to a bomb. Speaking from personal experience, people strapped to bombs are never a good thing (although at least it’s not him this time, which is a slight improvement but not much of one).

The second thing he notices – and this probably should have been the first – is that there appears to be two Sherlocks. The resemblance is uncanny, although on second glance the differences are obvious. The man wearing glasses is obviously younger, and for all his quirks, even Sherlock would never be caught wearing that mustard brown cardigan. Still, it is clear that this young man is somehow related, which is confirmed when Moriarty (the third thing to be noticed, and that _really_ should have been the first) interjects eagerly, “Yes, Doctor Watson. There are more of them.”

He doesn’t ask, just throws a questioning look at Sherlock, who doesn’t take his eyes off of Moriarty as he explains, “My younger brother.”

“Sort of,” Moriarty supplies unhelpfully. “Not by choice.”

“That is generally the case with genetics,” the man tied to the bomb points out dryly. The not-Sherlock (and good lord he really does resemble his older, far more irritating older brother) shoots him a look, but says nothing. Instead, he just looks like he really doesn’t want to be here, which is a sentiment John appreciates whole-heartedly when it comes to being anywhere near Moriarty.

“ _Anyhow_ ,” Moriarty continues, dragging out each syllable to make sure that he is the center of everyone’s attention, “I’m so glad you could make it. Sherlock here was just telling me that you weren’t going to show, which would have been no good, no good at all. After all, there’s two of them here, and only one of him, and that wouldn’t be a very fair trade at all.”

“Trade,” John repeats, looking back to Sherlock, who still won’t meet his eyes.

It’s not a question, but that doesn’t stop Moriarty from sighing dramatically. “Yes, _trade_. One Holmes and one misguided guard dog. Tit for tat. Sherlock here is offering to give himself up so that his brother can walk away free. Isn’t he such a good older brother?”

That barb is directed at Sherlock’s younger brother, who looks too pale to be healthy, but still he doesn’t say anything. He barely looks like he’s following this conversation at all, even though it is currently about him.

Moriarty’s face darkens then, and John has to suppress the urge to shudder. “But not _that_ good, seeing how he wanted to skip out on the deal by not bringing you along. It almost makes me think I need to require a little… extra more, to make up for his devious attempts to cheat me.”

Not like he needed an excuse for that in the first place. John waits for Sherlock to say _something_ , but his friend is still silent. There’s something about being here, being near his younger brother, that is making Sherlock hold back in a way John has never seen before. John has no idea why that is, but judging from the unabashed glee on Moriarty’s face, the consulting criminal certainly does. As John is probably the only one of the group that doesn’t know what is going on, it puts him in the unenviable position of asking the obvious question that no one else seems willing to ask. “Why are you doing this?”

Moriarty chuckles, and John wants nothing more than to shoot him between the eyes. Unfortunately, the guard who caught him had already frisked him for weapons, so he can do nothing but glare when Moriarty says derisively, “Ah, we can always depend on the esteemed Doctor Watson to ask the stupid questions, can’t we?”

John really couldn’t care less about Moriarty’s opinion of him, but his jaw clenches at the way Moriarty turns back to Sherlock with an expression that could almost be called sympathetic, if you didn’t already know what a right bastard he is. “I did it for you,” Moriarty says, before adding in case anyone was falling for his act, “ _duh_.”

Sherlock doesn’t look impressed. “Yes, obviously. You wanted my attention, and so you decided to show that you knew details about my family that most people would not-”

“Wrong!” Moriarty crows, absolutely delighted. “Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, _wrong_. I did this for _you_. So that you can make up for past sins.”

Sherlock says nothing, but Moriarty is far from done. “You couldn’t save him before, and it just tore _apart_ your family. You’ve always regretted it, not doing more, and ever since then you’ve wanted to be the hero. Oh sure, you _talk_ and _act_ like you don’t care, that you’re only doing things for yourself, but really all your good deeds stem from the fact that you didn’t rescue your sweet little brother when you had a chance, and that just _burns_ at you, doesn’t it?” Moriarty’s hand sweep out, and he yells, “Well, here’s your chance, Sherlock. Here I am, playing the part of the monster so _you_ get to be the hero.” His voice drops, but there’s no doubt he has what he wants: a captive audience. “Aren’t you going to thank me?”

Silence. Sherlock is staring at Moriarty like he has finally figured out how _mad_ the criminal is, and Moriarty is just grinning back at him, as if he really is waiting for thanks.

“It’s too late for that,” an unfamiliar voice interrupts, and everyone turns to look at the youngest Holmes who for his part, just looks at Moriarty. But not Sherlock; John can see that just like Sherlock has been avoiding him, the young man is trying very, very hard to not look at his own brother.

“Whatever you say, _pet_ ,” Moriarty replies with the same derisiveness he treats John with, before looking disappointed when Sherlock’s brother doesn’t react beyond turning a shade paler. John doesn’t know what Moriarty had been expecting, but that clearly wasn’t enough as the criminal’s expression turns ugly. “Getting used to that, are we? I’m starting to see why Mr. Scott played with you for so long. Perhaps I wouldn’t mind giving you another reminder of—no, no, _no_ , Mr. Bond, I would stop right there, if I was you. As much as I admire that _killer_ instinct of yours, don’t think my hand might just _slip_.”

Bond stops from where it looks like he had been trying to wrench himself out of his sea, explosives be damned. Sherlock’s brother is shaking now, and it’s not because Moriarty is holding something out for all of them to see. And it is then that John finally realizes – and this _definitely_ should have been the first thing he noticed – that this entire time, Moriarty has been holding onto a dead man’s switch. And even if it will kill them all, they all know Moriarty wouldn’t hesitate to use it if that is what it takes to keep Sherlock’s attention, however short that might last.

Sherlock, meanwhile, looks so placid that it’s like nothing unusual at all is happening, but John can see those subtle signs of anger as his friend says, “There’s no need for that. I’m here, so you can let them go now.”

Moriarty doesn’t even get the chance to gloat as the young man finally looks at Sherlock and asks incredulously, “You honestly expect me to walk away from you like this?”

“Why not, Q?” Sherlock replies, more cold than John has ever heard him. “You did it easily enough the last time.”

John automatically starts to tell Sherlock off for being a complete and utter _arse_ , but stops because he immediately knows that this isn’t typical Sherlock behavior. Sherlock is cold, but being near his brother… something has changed him, and not to be even more of a sodding bastard. No, Sherlock is honest to god scared for Q (and what kind of name is _that_?), and will do whatever it takes to get the results he wants. That result being getting Q and Bond out of there, even if he has to be nothing short of cruel to do so.

And from the expression on Q’s face, he knows this too, but still the realization quickly bleeds into a dull rage. Even if Sherlock doesn’t truly mean it, the words have cut too deep to simply be ignored. So instead of doing what Sherlock wants, Q finally steps away from Bond to approach his brother and, before anyone can do or say anything, slaps Sherlock across the face.

Moriarty lets out a low whistle of amusement, and considering the look of utter shock on Sherlock’s face, this was one thing he hadn’t anticipated. But the emotion is quickly wiped away as Sherlock asks, as cold as before, “Feel better?”

“How dare you?” Q asks, and he’s shaking. “How _dare_ you. You have no right, no right at all, and-”

“Yes, yes, we all know how you’re the victim here,” Sherlock cuts off, and now it’s Q’s turn to look like he’s been slapped. “You want to punish me; you’ve certainly been trying to punish me for years. And if that’s the case, why don’t you let me do this so that you can get on with your life again? You obviously don’t need or want me around anymore.”

“I didn’t _want_ you to do this either,” Q hisses back.

“I didn’t exactly have a choice, now did I?”

“ _Now_ you want to talk about choices?” Q lets out a sharp sound that could be a laugh or a sob. “How about the fact that you were too busy shooting yourself up with your goddamn drugs while a madman kept me locked up in a basement for a month? Whose choice was it then, or did someone stuff that needle into your arm?”

John doesn’t even need to know Sherlock to see how hard it is for him to keep himself steady. “That was years ago. We’re talking about the present now, which you could never see because you were always too busy living in the past.”

“They’re one and the same right now, in case you haven’t noticed. If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be here in the first place, and-”

“Yes, fine, blame me,” Sherlock snaps. “You’ve been doing it for years, and it’s all you ever wanted, someone to blame for what happened to you. Well, if that’s the case, you should be happy this is happening because here’s your chance to punish me _again_.”

Q looks like he’s half a second away from slapping Sherlock again, and he opens his mouth to reply but John is no longer listening. They notice it at the same time, Bond and himself. Possibly Sherlock and Q notice it too, but Moriarty is too sickly pleased by the people falling apart in front of him to notice. Or at least, he notices a split second after the rest of them do, but it’s a split second too late as John is already running towards him, and before anyone else can react there is a perfect hole right between Moriarty’s eyes, just as John tackles him.

They go down in a splay of blood, but unlike the other times he’s found himself so close to death, John makes no attempt to rescue the man. Instead, his hands quickly grapple for the dead man’s switch, grabbing for the hand that is already loosening around it before keeping it tightly gripped.

He’s breathing hard, holding as tight as he can, when he looks down on Moriarty. The blood is spreading fast, and John is reminded of all those times he’s sat next to someone, trying to offer a final word of comfort even as he watches the last bits of life slip away from them.

There’s no words of comfort now, but it’s not like any are needed. Because even now, Moriarty is grinning, assured in a victory that even his own death can never take away from him.


	6. Mycroft Holmes

When Mycroft arrives at the scene, he immediately heads towards the spot of orange. He knows it has to be his youngest brother; Sherlock never did have the patience for that sort of thing, and would have tossed the blanket at the earliest possible moment. And while the orange blanket no doubt irritates his youngest brother, he is still far better at following directions than Sherlock is.

“How are you?” he asks when he gets close, careful not to betray the fact that this is their first face-to-face meeting in thirteen years. They’ve communicated through official channels, of course, but that was the quartermaster, not his brother.

“Fine, Mr. Holmes.”

Mycroft sighs; his youngest brother might be better at following directions, but he also possesses a passive-aggressive streak that would drive most anyone to tears. “Daryl-”

“No,” Daryl says sharply, but behind the anger he can hear the desperation. “Don’t. You lost that right years ago.”

He doesn’t respond to that, simply waiting for Daryl to regain his composure. Which he will, eventually. They always do. And once he does, his brother turns to look at him and says, “He’s still alive. Why?”

Mycroft knows exactly who his brother refers to, especially with the unspoken accusation in the words. He won’t apologize for that though, since they both know he has his obligations. “There was no reason not to. We can’t go around executing someone who is clearly mentally ill just because, you realize.”

Daryl stares at him, his disbelief plain. His youngest brother had always been too emotional though, unable to separate what could be done with what _should_ be done. But he is intelligent as well, which is why he doesn’t bother to appeal to emotion and goes straight to cold logic.

“Well, there is certainly a reason now, one that should satisfy even you,” Daryl snaps. “I don’t want this happening again, my being dangled between Sherlock and some shadowy entity because of what happened in the past.”

Mycroft has to admit the point of this. He had never foreseen this sort of thing happening, which was precisely why they were having this conversation at the moment. He nods quickly; he will personally see to it that Mr. Scott is taken care of quickly, quietly, and efficiently. “Understood.”

Silence falls between them. Mycroft is used to such silences, but Daryl apparently no longer is, and after a long moment his brother says, “You’re still here. What do you want?”

He doesn’t recall his brother being this rude before, and he wonders if he should have a word with Mallory (or better yet, 007) about this unfortunate development. For now, he’s willing to write it off to the stress of the last few days, and so he simply replies, “Whatever he said, he didn’t mean it.”

Mycroft knows Sherlock wouldn’t want him defending him, but it’s not about want, especially when it comes to their family. It’s about what has to be done.

“You honestly believe that?”

“Yes.”

“Good for you then,” Daryl replies, and Mycroft almost has to wonder what Sherlock could have said to make their brother so unhappy. It isn’t as if Daryl doesn’t know how Sherlock is, so whatever words were exchanged must have gone further (must have contained more truth) than strictly necessary. However, he is not about to ask, and Daryl has no interest in discussing it either as he continues, “In any case, that’s not what you want. Try again.”

He feels a flash of irritation at his brother’s petulance, but keep his voice as steady as he would have thirteen years ago. “I merely wished to see how you are doing.”

“Why?” Daryl replies, but the impatience is tempered by the barest hitch in his breath.

“Must I?” he asks, and when all he gets is unhappy silence, it is apparent that indeed, he must. “Because you are my brother, and you should be coming home. You know that mummy and daddy worry about you, and while I don’t approve of your… agent, you should at least bring him by to introduce to our parents-”

He stops when Daryl shakes his head, huddling into the blanket. “No. _No._ Whatever just happened, this doesn’t change anything. I’m not going anywhere with you. I’m not going back there. I won’t, I _can’t_ , I… I’m just not that person anymore.”

“You’ll always be my brother.”

Daryl looks up at Mycroft, and there is no anger on his face. There is no guilt, or sadness, or fear. Instead, there is nothing, and his voice is empty as he says, “I just can’t say the same about you.”

Mycroft doesn’t bother holding his gaze, instead looking towards where he can hear Sherlock loudly disparaging the rescue team. But even there, the insults are subdued, and Sherlock is very transparently trying not to look in their direction. “Do you really hate us that much?”

Daryl goes still. Although there is no indication of what he is thinking, Mycroft knows him well enough to recognize that he is counting to himself (Daryl’s favored coping technique, to keep himself calm when Sherlock had thrown another callous remark at him or Mycroft had impatiently brushed him off) before he asks quietly, “Is that really what you think?”

“I am not sure how else I am supposed to think,” he points out. He doesn’t want to be critical, but he doesn’t know where this is going. It had never been their decision to walk away; that had been Daryl’s decision, and Daryl’s alone.

It is apparent though, that Daryl does not see it that way. He looks a little confused, unsure of how to continue, before sighing. “It’s not just you two, you know. Mummy and daddy… I haven’t seen them since either.”

He is not in the business of being surprised, but that is… unexpected. He always assumed that his youngest brother kept in touch with them, and that their parents did not speak of it because that was what Daryl wanted. To learn that he has cut ties with them as well is rather startling, and completely unnecessary. “They had nothing to do with what happened. You know that.”

“Of course I do,” Daryl replies, shrinking back slightly at Mycroft’s critical tone. “But I just… I couldn’t. I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because it was the only way I knew how to cope.” Daryl shakes his head again, closing his eyes as he tries to explain. “I’m not like you, Mycroft. Or like Sherlock. I can’t just… lock it away somewhere else, separate and delete it, and pretend it never happened. I wish I could, but I couldn’t. But I couldn’t live with it either. I tried, for a while, but it was just too much. That’s why I have these.”

Daryl hesitates, but perhaps knowing that Mycroft will not understand otherwise, he pulls up one sleeve to show his scarred wrists. Mycroft can instantly see that they are not all from the time Daryl was in the hospital, and once Daryl knows the implications have sunk in, he rolls the sleeve back down and continues, “The only way I could cope with it, to not try this again, was to not be that person anymore. I _couldn’t_ be him anymore, I just couldn’t. Because when I’m him it’s all I can remember. I don’t remember you or Sherlock or mummy and daddy. All I can remember is _him_. And I just… I’d rather die than have that be the only thing in my life again. So this was the only other way.”

Daryl… _Q_ shifts uncomfortably, but has the courtesy not to look away as he finishes, “The only way I could get past it, to move on, was to let go of everything else. To stop being that person. I don’t expect you or Sherlock to understand, or anyone else for that matter, but you don’t have to. And I don’t like it, I really don’t, but I don’t have to like it either. I just have to live with it.”

For a long time, neither he nor his brother speaks. Mycroft just looks at Q, not really understanding. He does not – cannot – understand why anyone would have to go to such lengths to forget what was, he does not deny, a traumatic event, but he also knows that Q is right. Daryl had never been like himself or Sherlock; he’s been too open, too emotional, too _human_. He couldn’t just remove himself from the situation, look at it with dispassionate logic. And yet still he is a Holmes, so capable of setting things aside for the sake of survival, and in ways far more extreme than would have been needed if it had been Sherlock or himself.

And what Mycroft can see, which perhaps even Q cannot, is that Daryl had to let go of all of it, his entire past, because it was too intertwined with what had happened to him all those years ago. It’s not just about what that man did to him, but what his brothers failed to do. Time and time again, Mycroft had always underestimated how much Daryl cared about them, relied upon them, and looked up to them. No matter how many times they had failed to reciprocate that love in the same way, he’d still loved them back, and expected… no, depended on them to find him. In all likelihood, he had never once doubted that they would do whatever it took to bring him home because his love for them had made him blind to all of their faults.

Except they hadn’t, and it had destroyed him completely.

That is why Mycroft knows that he has been wrong all of this time. He had respected Daryl’s decision, but always with the assumption that with sufficient time, his brother would come back. With time to heal (and for the anger to fade), that would be enough. He knows now that he was wrong because until now, he had never truly understood why it was necessary for his brother to go to such extraordinary lengths to escape his past. He had never fully accepted that Daryl had to escape them as well, to be able to move on.

Moriarty had though, he has no doubt. There was no reason for Moriarty to set this up unless he already knew what the outcome would be. Of course he wasn’t interested in bringing a broken family back together; he wanted to rip it apart even further, just one more way of destroying Sherlock by taking away any hope that the one part of his past that he secretly wanted to keep hold of would never be coming back.

Because Mycroft knows that deep down, that is what Sherlock wants most. He knows because that is what he has wanted all this time as well. No matter what Sherlock and Daryl think of him, he had wanted to keep his family together, but it is clear now that he has failed. What they had, is lost because Daryl is gone, betrayed by his own adoration for brothers who could never reciprocate in the same way.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally. He is not entirely sure what precisely he is apologizing for at this point, but they both know it no longer matters.

Still, he feels like he should be trying something more, although he is held back by the knowledge that doing more may only make things worse. If Daryl had believed it necessary to leave behind his past entirely in order to survive, what right does he have to challenge that? And yet, a part of him wants to say something in an effort to make things right, but then 007 calls out, “Q. We need to go back to MI6 to debrief now.”

Q immediately turns to look at the agent, and his tension is already slipping away. But Mycroft can tell that it is not because he is grateful for the distraction; even now, before his eyes, the last remains of his brother are quickly slipping away, leaving a complete stranger in his place. “Understood, Bond. I will be there shortly.”

Q doesn’t turn back to face him, shrugging off the orange blanket as he stands and says, “Good night, Mr. Holmes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks, to everyone who managed to get through this story. I know it is a bit of a mess, part of which has to do with the fact that it’s told from the perspective of six characters with incomplete information but mostly because when I threw together the first part, I didn’t have a storyline beyond ‘hey, what if this is what happened to the third Holmes brother?’ A story sort of came into being with parts three and four, exploring how Q responded to what happened by creating a new identity for himself, one that was wholly separate from being the youngest Holmes sibling, and how that affected his brothers in turn.
> 
> When I did the rewrite of this story, I think something that emerged which wasn’t quite as explicit in the original version was how Q’s love for his brothers ruined him. It wasn’t really as much about blame in the end, but just having idolized two extraordinary people, to be failed so badly by them had its own impacts. And that in turn ruined his family, particularly his brothers, who beyond their own self-blame had to deal with the loss of a sibling who loved them in a way they didn’t necessarily understand. Which in turn, makes it hard for them to understand why Q did what he did. I don’t know, it’s hard to put into words, and probably Mycroft’s chapter was my attempt at tying these ideas together.
> 
> But again, many thanks to everyone who read. My apologies for the lack of coherence (both here and in the story), but hope you enjoyed nevertheless.

**Author's Note:**

> Daily updates, as the story is theoretically done on my Tumblr, but currently undergoing a significant rewrite.
> 
> For more ficlets, I can be found on http://pikachumaniac.tumblr.com/.


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